Fireworks, Shmireworks
by selori
Summary: Phil Coulson has never been to a fireworks show in person. He's seen a few on TV, and that's plenty, right? Clint Barton is pretty sure that a kid needs to see a fireworks show at least once in his life. Part 4 of the "Someone Today" series.


"So, Coulson, if we fit in a nap this afternoon, we can stay up and go see the fireworks show."

Coulson fixed him with the pint-sized version of his "Agent Coulson is not amused" deadpan expression. "Why bother?" He wrinkled his (objectively adorable, button-sized) nose. "It's loud and it stinks."

Clint eyed him narrowly, trying to gauge the source of his disapproval. "We'd be on the other side of the river, so away from the noise and the gunpowder smell."

Coulson shrugged dismissively. "I've seen fireworks shows on TV, Barton. I can't understand why people get so worked up about them." His lips pressed together in distaste. "Ya-de-DA-de-da-da-DUM-da-dum, BOOM!" he sang, making an explosive gesture to indicate an exploding firework when he got to the point in the 1812 Overture where the cannon fired. "How many times can you listen to that and see some flashing lights, anyway? What's the big deal?"

"It's not really about that, Coulson. I mean, the music is nice, but most of the fireworks shows I ever saw were just the thumps and the whistles and the crackling sounds. It's the crowds, sir. It's the..." Clint started to feel a little foolish as he tried to compress his experience into words. "...the bond, I guess, kinda, with the whole group of people. Kind of like you get seeing a great movie in a packed theater. That," he continued, grinning, "plus the deep-seated biological wiring that makes us all stare at the pretty lights and shout 'Whoa!' at the same moment."

Coulson appeared unconvinced and folded his arms in front of his chest.

Clint played his trump card. "Mrs. Brown called earlier. Apparently they do a big Fourth of July party at their house, and then everybody watches the fireworks from their back yard. She invited us to come over, if we wanted."

Phil's eyes lit up. "Jacob B's mom? We'd be at Jacob's house?" He practically vibrated where he stood. "They have a _water slide_," he breathed in a reverent tone.

Clint nodded. "Their house backs up on the river, and the fireworks are set off right on the other side."

"OK, we can go. But do I _have_ to take a nap?"

The party was barely-controlled chaos, but Clint had to give Mrs. Brown credit for addressing most of the normal hitches. There was a water slide for the children to play on and tire themselves out - and to keep them out from under the adults' feet. The younger children were up far past their normal bedtimes, and there was a _long_ stretch between a 6-ish dinner and a 10 PM fireworks show, so she started an animated movie in the living room around 8. Mosquitoes? Citronella candles. Post-sunset temperature drop? Out came blankets and comforters.

Phil spent most of the afternoon splashing with the other kids in the inflatable water slide. As the afternoon slid into evening and the adults ate dinner, the children continued running laps in the small pool, chasing each other up the slide and up the steps. Phil finally stopped not because his lips were nearly as blue as his Captain America swim trunks but because he was too hungry to ignore it any longer.

When Coulson was finally dry, warm, and fed, they settled into chairs facing out across the river to wait for the fireworks to start. Beside him, Clint heard another child peppering her mother with an infinite list of questions, most of them unanswerable. He leaned over and murmured in Coulson's ear, "I am so glad you're not doing that, boss."

With a gleam in his eye, Coulson nodded. "That child would test the patience of a saint."

They waited, an easy quiet between them, letting the rest of the conversations wash over them.

The thump from across the river was so strong that Clint felt it vibrate through his entire body. It was immediately followed by a hiss as the rocket was propelled through the air, and then there was a silent explosion of expanding lights in red, then white, and then blue.

The firework's _snap_ arrived at almost the same time as he heard a quiet "Oh" from beside him. Phil's face was turned up to the sky, his eyes fixed on the last fading sparks of the chrysanthemum firework.

The next rocket shot into the air in a spiral of white and then erupted into a small cluster of green, to the audience's delight. The one after that shot trails of white in five different directions. The next started with a flash so bright Clint saw afterimages in the dark spaces of the sky.

"I haven't seen something that bright since the last time you used a flash-bang," Coulson muttered.

Clint grinned at him, and then looked back up at the sky in time to see an enormous sphere of red exploding into tiny, wriggling white curlicues. There was a collective "Ahhh" from the people seated on the riverbank, and Clint could make out Phil's voice among them.

When a series of fountains led to a final barrage of bright, expanding spheres, the crowd erupted in spontaneous applause. Clint joined them, shrilly whistling his appreciation, and Phil clapped until even his well-padded hands must have been sore.

He turned to Clint, and even in the darkness, Clint could see the excitement in his eyes. With a brilliant grin, Phil said, "We are _so_ doing this again next year!"


End file.
